Not Quite A Step
by Co-Quill-Eon
Summary: Relief pours through his veins when he feels Eames tugging at him. *It's smuttyness ahead. Fair warning*


When there's a knock at the door, Arthur is ninety percent sure that it's the hotel manager, coming to politely inquire as to any illegal activities he may currently be engaged in. It's a testament to how fucked up he is that he doesn't even startle, or at least try to spray the place.

No.

Actually, the testament is the fact that Arthur is doing this in the first place. He hasn't for… Jesus. Years and years.

The knocking sounds again and Arthur looks idly around, finally deciding to lay the still smoking blunt on the crystal clear glass table in the middle of the sitting room. One more swig of Jack and he's still wiping the back of his hand across his mouth when he swings the door open.

"Really, Arthur, at least invest in some Febreeze if you're going to smoke something so potent." Eames stands in the doorway. He's still wearing his suit, and even though he' seen him in it, it still strikes Arthur as strange; he looks odd in such a dark, not to mention, solid color.

He shrugs. "I _was_ promised it would be the loudest. And it is. Better be, for what I paid for it."

Eames grins, and breezes in around him. He turns around to see Eames looking around, to the ashing blunt on the table next to the open bottle, to the rolling paper already split open. His gaze comes back to settle on him and even though he says nothing, Arthur knows he looks like shit. Complete and utter shit. His hair is still wet from the shower he tried to drown himself in a little while earlier, his eyes are most likely bloodshot (weed and alcohol the culprits, that and only that he will swear) and he's in a white under shirt and black sleep pants. The shirt has a hole on the shoulder. Arthur didn't even know he owned anything with holes in it besides his button downs.

"I'm not going to lie," Eames begins as he reaches around Arthur to closes the door behind him, and Arthur grunts.

"Why break old habits now?"

"I didn't exactly expect this, but it was a close shot." Eames picks up the large baggie of sticky, green buds between his first two fingers, inspecting the crystals. "The narcotics are a surprise. If I's known that that's what you were after, I'd have paid Yusuf a visit before I came on over. He's got blocks of hashish underneath his couch."

Arthur says nothing to this. He's already across the room and dropping onto the couch, leaning over to grab the heavy bottle from the table. He picks up the blunt and sticks it between his lips. He doesn't watch to see what Eames is doing, no doubt taking in the less than Arthur neatness that always accompanies any hotel room he inhabits. There are papers scattered on the desk, a few on the floor. His suit, the one he wore earlier today, is in a heap on the floor, the suit jacket halfway in the bathroom, socks haphazard. His PASIV is in the chair across from the couch, standing straight up, shiny and gleaming even in the low, amber lighting of the room. He stares at it as he flicks the lighter and inhales.

He feels the couch shift beneath him when Eames takes a seat and says nothing when he has the bottle taken away from his loose grip. He hears the other man take a hearty few swallows and when he's done, Arthur wordlessly hands over the spliff.

"How are the sprogs?"

"Confused." And they are. James is crying constantly, and so is Phillipa. But hers are punctuated with questions. And Arthur can't answer any of them, none of them can because the only people who know, who truly understand why any of this is happening, are both gone. One in the ground and the other on the run.

"Anyone heard from him yet?"

"Did you expect him to reach out to anyone yet?"

Eames doesn't answer. Just takes a draw. They sit there like that for a long time, passing the blunt back and forth until it gets small enough to burn Arthur's fingers. He feels Eames' eyes on his back when he leans over to roll another one and gives him a lighter when he's finished.

"She's in the ground now," he says and hands over the wrap. And it just doesn't matter how many times he says it, does it? "Mal. She's gone. I'm not going to get shot in the head or strangled to death and wake up to see her in the chair next to me." Eames doesn't answer, just inhales deeply and tilts his head back. "I mean… unless she was right. And she jumped and fell into another reality." He feels Eames look sharply over at him and he shakes his head. "I didn't mean it like- I _know_. I _know_ what really happened. I… just wonder. Where is she? What's she doing? Does she know?"

He doesn't answer right away, just reaches his arm out, allowing his fingers to tangle clumsily with Arthur's own when he goes to hand over the wrap. Arthur inhales deeply, so much smoke filling his mouth that some of it billows out and up into his nostrils in a thick white cloud before he sucks it all back down. It all comes out in one angry gust. "I don't know what-" he cuts himself off. He does know. He knows, but he can never come out and say it.

To be fair, Eames doesn't exactly either.

"So it's me, then." It comes out quietly, a hint of amusement hidden between the words, and there it is, about as forward as either of them will ever get about this whole thing.

"Yeah. It is." He doesn't look at the other man and another silence falls between them.

There's something a little off in the way Eames says, "You really know how to make a bloke feel special," and Arthur smiles thinly at that.

He knows he's shit at this. They all know it, even if no one comes out and says it. Well Mal does. She did. "Dreadful," was the word she'd used, tugging on his hair a little to keep his head in her lap when he feigned movement to get up. "But you will get better," and her fingernails dragged lightly over his scalp. "You already are."

The drugs, and drink, and grief have made him impulsive, impatient, ready to have Eames sweep everything from his mind. But Eames is relaxed, slouched down at the other end of the couch, smoke billowing from his barely parted lips and his head tilted back to rest on the cushions. His eyes are closed, and his mouth is full, and he looks so peaceful… and Arthur needs to touch him because he looks _so_…

He's careful when he takes the half smoked blunt from between Eames' fingertips and places it between his own lips before rising up onto his knees to straddle his thighs. Eames's hands automatically come up from their place on his own chest to settle on Arthur's hips, thumbs pressing in briefly into the hollows of his hips. Arthur takes a long drag, pulls until he can't anymore, and sets the blunt down in the empty crystal candy bowl next to the armrest. He leans down, arms bracketed on either side of Eames' head and hesitates a moment to look down into his face, the thought that he must have hundreds of those too long lashes flittering through his mind briefly. And then he's pressing his lips to those full ones. They part automatically to take the smoke - takes it all in before one of those hands is tangled in Arthur's short hair, pulling him in and slipping his tongue inside, smoking billowing out to curl and snake around their heads.

Relief pours through his veins when he feels Eames tugging at him, fingers slipping underneath his shirt. His hips buck up and Arthur rides it out with a twist of his body, using his hold on the couch to pull himself even closer, grinding down and biting at the plump slickness of Eames' bottom lip.

He's gripping Arthur to him now; posture the total opposite of just a few moments ago -his neck strains upwards, and his shoulders are taut with pulling his smaller frame close. But Arthur doesn't want to do this here – he wants to be spread out, totally bare. He pulls away, pushes Eames' hands away and watches the way the other man slowly blinks up at him as he stands. His hazy eyes slide down to where Arthur's erection is eye level and making the front of his pants tent almost obscenely. He wets his lips, staring and Arthur feels his pulse spike thickly.

"C'mon."

He falls out of his shirt and onto the bed, his skin burning up and his head swimming. Eames stares down at him in the near darkness, and Arthur lets him. He watches Eames' gaze follow the way his hand slides down his chest to cup the bulge in front of his pants. The friction feels good, just enough to make him shiver and he lets out the shadow of a moan, toes curling.

There's a beat of stillness and then Eames is swearing underneath his breath and ripping off that awful plain black shirt he'd worn to the funeral. It flutters to the ground and Arthur thinks that he'll get rid of it later; have a garish, awful printed one sent to wherever Eames will be to make up for it. The bed dips as Eames crawls up to kneel between Arthur's legs, which spread to welcome him automatically, and Arthur is reaching for the other man before he's even halfway to him.. He's cupping his face, palms flat on each of his cheeks, the stubble he can't ever seem to grow so evenly on his own face scratching slightly at the soft skin. The silkiness of his hair against his fingertips is a familiar contrast and Arthur knows he's eager as he meets Eames in the middle, lips already tingling.

The first press is insistent and warm, a slight dryness that soon turns slick and hot as Arthur parts Eames' lips with his own tongue. Eames' hands are flat against the pillows, and keeps moving forward until their bare chests are pressed together. He pushes Arthur back down onto the bed, grinding his hips as a hand slides up over sharp collarbones to settle on Arthur's throat. He bites at Arthur's lips, sharp, slightly crooked bottom teeth digging into the tender flesh and his thumb presses lightly, first against his Adam's apple and then to the soft junction underneath his jaw. Not too hard, just enough to have Arthur's breath stutter in his chest and fingers tightening on Eames' biceps. His eyes are still bright in the darkness and Arthur can see them fix on his own, watching. Fingertips stroke this throat, random patterns before Eames large palm is wrapping around, thumb nestled right underneath his ear and Arthur's hips buck at the possessiveness of the movement. Faint resentment should follow – Eames is taking advantage, laying it out so plainly for both of them to see, but he knows it isn't like that. Is too tired to pretend.

They kiss like that, Eames' body covering Arthur's almost completely; hips grinding in easy, slightly maddening circles, for a long time, and Arthur lets the tension bleed from his body. _This_ is what he needed - _needs_. Eames, right here, in his room, in his arms, and sharing air. He lets the rocking motions and the gentle slide of the other man's tongue against his own take him somewhere else. Nothing else matters right now, not a _damn_ thing-

_Mal's smiling eyes, Dom's crazy stare=_

-except this – he'll allow the self-indulgence. He's tired of trying to keep it together all the fucking time. And he knows if he has to do it a minute longer with no relief he'll snap.

Eames cups his ass, gripping it so firmly Arthur half rises from the bed. The kiss becomes more intense - he bites at Arthur's lips, kisses him deeply, before pulling his face away to kiss his cheeks, his nose, his temple, the soft skin on the shell of his ear. All the while he kneads Arthur's ass roughly through his pants, and Arthur breathes heavily into the space next to his shoulder. His hand squeezes, pulling the cheeks apart, fingers dipping in and running up and down the cleft. Arthur feels how hard Eames is when he rocks down, pulling Arthur up by the hip to meet him halfway. His voice is gravel when he speaks, low and wrecked in Arthur's ear. "Can I?" he whispers and Arthur has a moment of hazy confusion for a split second; is Eames really asking for permission to fuck him when Arthur is clinging to him like a maiden in a harlequin novel? But then he feels those thick, long fingers press against his hole through the fabric of his boxers, middle finger pushing in slightly before circling and it clicks. Arthur, whose fingers were already pressing into Eames' shoulder blades, convulse quickly and he nods, almost frantically, against Eames' stubble

Eames lets out a noise, a low, rumbling satisfied sound the starts in his chest as he pushes another sloppy kiss onto Arthur's swollen mouth and he moves down, down, down Arthur's body, plush kisses on his chest, his heaving stomach.

He's too turned on, too wired on too much, and he tries to get a hold of himself while Eames hooks his fingers in the waistband of his sleep pants and pulls down. He breathes in deeply through his nose, thinking it will help, but the air gets lodged in his throat when he realizes Eames is doing the same thing, only he's breathing _Arthur_ in. Nosing at the hair around his swollen, leaking cock, red from no direct contact. His hips lift automatically, seeking, but Eames just kisses the base, tongue darting out to drive Arthur crazy, and then Eames is pulling him apart.

Those hands grip him behind the thighs now, pushing them up and out of the way, spreading him open wide to Eames, who's settled onto his stomach. He stares and stares, pulling his lower lip into his mouth, letting it slip back out, and his tongue is pink and shiny when he lets it out to wet the obscene curve of the upper. Arthur squirms, ears and cheeks burning, his cock bobbing hard and straining in the air. Eames' hands slide down to his ass, holding him open, thumbs digging into the firm flesh on either side of his hole. Arthur wonders every time what he's thinking as he looks; what is running through his mind when he strokes tenderly at the puckered, dusty pink skin, only half aware of the shivers he sends up Arthur's spine when he does it? But the sight of Eames' eyelids slipping shut slowly, the utterly engrossed look that falls across his features, as if he's about to _savor_ this, has his brain short-circuiting.

And then his tongue is _there_, slick, and hard, and searing. So wet, so insistent, and the madness engulfs Arthur again, that fever like feeling underneath his skin, so hot and good he literally can't think. Can't concentrate on anything except how _fucking._ _perfect_ Eames' tongue feels pushing inside and circling the inner rim, letting the tip of his tongue catch before pulling out and laying down slow, filthy French kisses before starting all over again.

Arthur's happy Eames can't see the way his eyes have rolled into the back of his head, lids slipping shut, and mouth falling open. _Fuck, fuckfuckshitohmygod_, and it's just as amazing as every single time before. _So utterly fucking amazing_. Eames wiggles his tongue inside once more, fucking it in a half dozen times, quick, focused, and suddenly slows down and backs off. Licks only the rim, pulling back every few broad strokes to look at the way Arthur can feel himself winking open and closed. Without warning, he feels the twists of his tongue inside and Arthur's hips jerk sharply. He tries to pull away, just for a second, the sensations too much, too fucking _good_, but Eames won't let him. Just lets him get a few inches up the bed before growing impatient, sitting up enough on his knees to wrap his forearms around each of Arthur's thighs and haul him back. He's relentless, tongue plunging and teeth nipping so lightly. Arthur's whole body is loose, pliant underneath Eames' ministrations. So he only manages to let out a small sound of protest when one hand inches up Arthur's chest bypassing his absolutely dripping cock, and fingers push at his lips.

He sucks them down easily, the saltiness fading quickly underneath his tongue. When they're wet enough, slick with his spit, Eames pulls his hand away, and soon Arthur feels two of those fingers sliding smoothly inside of him. He feels the vibration of Eames humming, pleased at the feel of him. He uses his fingers to fuck him, tongue darting around in circles and between when he scissors them apart, and Arthur can't take it anymore. He moves one of his own hands down, which had been doing an undecided dance between clutching the sheets, the pillows, Eames' hair, and his own hair to wrap a sweaty palm around himself, but Eames slaps his hand out of the way as he leans up onto his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Take those off," Arthur demands, hoarsely. "Take those stupid, fucking pants off and come fuck me, Eames. Now." And he's usually not a talker during sex, but it drives Eames absolutely mad. It shows in the way he darts up off of the bed, fingers thick and a little fumbling with the buttons of his fly. A thin packet of lube lands on his chest and Arthur rips it open with his teeth. His own fingers are clumsy when he coats them and slips them inside of himself.

He can barely open his eyes now, but through the haziness he can see Eames watching him again, naked and standing near the bed, stroking himself in slow, corkscrew motions. "Eames." And his voice sounds a little too thin and strained for his liking, but then Eames is between his legs again, fingers joining Arthur's in stroking the tiny ridges, or dipping inside to tease at the bundle of nerves that he's learned _just_ how to work to make Arthur see stars.

"No more of that, Darling," he says quietly, almost to himself, and he pulls Arthur's fingers away, letting them tangle briefly, hot and sticky. He watches Eames furrow his brow in concentration as he lines himself up. The thoughts of condoms fly errantly through his mind, but then it's forgotten when he feels the head of Eames' cock push inside. "I've got you." He relaxes immediately, not that it takes much effort – he's already putty in the other man's hands. There's no resistance when Eames just keeps pushing. It's a slick, hot, endless stroke and then he's all the way in, hips pressed against Arthur's ass, their eyes locked. And it seems like Eames looks at him for full minutes, eyes flying all over Arthur's features - lips, cheeks, chin, nose, but always coming back to rest on his blown eyes, and it's too much for Arthur. He closes his eyes and lifts his hips, hoping Eames will get the idea.

For a few more moments he can feel Eames taking in his closed eyes and flushed cheeks, and _what? What is he- _

-and then he moves, thrusting in shallow, but hard enough to punch the breath from Arthur's lungs. He settles each hands on either side of Arthur's shoulders, lifts himself up, and looks down their naked stomachs to where their bodies are connected before pulling out nearly all the way and snapping back in. He does it over and over again, indulgent, lazy strokes that simply revel in the sensations of having the hot, tight slickness of Arthur all around him, no barriers.

It's fucking luxurious, to lay back let the sense of rightness overtake him – lavishing underneath Eames' attention, allowing his hips to raise and meet nearly every thrust with a twist of his hips. He knows what to do here, has done it so many times before. He lets out a displeased noise when Eames pulls all the way out and is forced to open his eyes again. He watches with heavy eyelids as Eames sits back on his calves, cock in hand – he angles it carefully and pushes back in roughly and Arthur's neck goes taught and then his head and shoulders snap back into the pillows. Stars are bursting at the edges of his vision and tangy electricity plays in the back of his throat.

Over and over, Eames presses, rubs, _pushes_ into that bundle of nerves with the head of his cock, and Arthur keeps wondering if he's ever going to be able to catch a full breath. He reaches his arms up, threading his fingers through Eames' hair, and tugs. Eames comes readily, burying his face into his throat, mouthing and kissing sloppily, sucking roughly on the skin there as Arthur drives his hips up to meet every thrust.

He loves fucking Eames. It's easiest to admit at moments like these, when he's drunk, and high, and breaking apart at the seams. He loves fucking Eames and he loves when Eames fucks him; loves the way Eames knows his body like every single one of his forgeries. Intimate knowledge that, even if Arthur _knows_ isn't real, feels so damn genuine he can feel something constrict in his chest if he looks it for a moment too long. It's become like a drug; he admits it to himself, will even say it aloud, as much as he can, like he did earlier tonight when he's got a loose tongue and nothing to lose. It not every time, because he's still fucking self-sufficient, but when things go way south – a job gone absolutely down the shitter, almost dying in the middle of a country where no one can understand you, having your best friend commit suicide and your other best friend flee the country- Eames over him, inside of him, seems to be the only thing that keeps Arthur from razing villages.

His legs are hooked around Eames' slim hips now, ankles crossed at the base of his back and his arms twined around his broad shoulders, and he knows he's clinging. But Eames is clinging right back, kissing every inch he can reach, and whispering nothings against Arthur's skin. A particularly sharp thrust in the exact right spot has Arthur biting back a strangled sound.

"No, no, no," Eames is whispering right into the skin behind his ear. "Don't, darling. Let me hear you, come, on." He leans back to sit up again, and pulls Arthur's hips with him, settling him into the V of his legs, Arthur's own legs spread wide on top of his thighs. He's breathing hard, skin shimmering with sweat, but he still strokes in slowly, with purpose. In and back out, takes a hold of the base of his dick and angles again. Shivers run down Arthur's spine when Eames rocks even more consistently against his prostate. And it's not fair, this methodical fucking, every nudge, _every_ _single_ movement made to drive him out of his mind. He can't help it when he lets out a broken sound, but it feels so good. Again and again, Eames pushes in and Arthur stops holding back. He's pretty sure they sound like a filthy porno to the people next door.

Through his haze he goes to sit up, maybe catch his breath, maybe to pull off of Eames' dick so he can breathe, he's not sure, Eames has got him so dizzy and floating, but as soon as he's upright, Eames is hauling him in chest to chest, hips fucking up rapidly, filling him up so completely, and Arthur has to wind one arm around Eames' shoulders while the other hand slams flat onto the wall behind them, holding on. He feels his mouth drop open, form around the word "_fuckfuckfuck_" over and over again. He feels Eames' sharp smile against his shoulder blade, feels big hands clutch at the meat of his ass and pull the cheeks apart, fingers rubbing around the stretched rim of his asshole where they're connected. It's a slow, careful movement, reverent in a way that's very much at odds to the way Eames is fucking Arthur's brain through his skull.

His own hips are rutting senselessly now, knees planted on either side of Eames' hips, both arms wrapped around his broad, tattooed shoulders, and from the faint tang of copper, probably biting his own lower lip bloody.

He's _hot_, sweat dripping into his eyes and down the curve of his back, but he hardly notices, not with Eames clutching and grabbing at him, fucking him senseless, and talking talking talking- begging. For Arthur to speak. "Come on, love, talk to me…"

He doesn't answer at first, just keeps fucking himself on Eames' cock, loving the way those hands slide up his spine to bury in his hair.

"I need to come, Arthur," he whispers, almost urgently, hands in Arthur's hair, holding his head steady. His gaze is startlingly open, _raw_. He speaks against Arthur's lips. "I'm so close, Darling; I just need to hear you. Let me hear you-."

"Fuck me," he blurts out, mind racing. "Come inside of me. I want to feel it, sticky and wet… You've never fucked me raw before… I've never fucked anyone raw before. Never felt it dripping out of my ass and down my thighs. You're the only one, you can fuck it all up inside of me and lick me clean-" and that's the trigger, apparently, because Eames fucks up into him so hard, _slams_ upwards. Once, twice three times, and all Arthur can do is try to keep the noise down so front desk won't _actually_ come to his door.

And he says Eames name. He whispers it into his hair, forces it out in a jumble of letters because he needs to hear it as he comes. He hasn't even touched his cock, but thick, white ropes rush forward, out through his flaring slit, and smearing hot and sloppy onto the other man's stomach and chest – its outlining and filling in his tattoos, clinging to his skin in a way that Arthur can vaguely appreciate through his haze of fucked out bliss. He goes easily when Eames surges upwards, center of gravity off when he's briefly in the air and his back is suddenly being pressed into the pillows.

"_Arthurarthurarthur_-" It's a stream of consciousness spoken into his clavicle, cut off by a bite into his shoulder as Eames' hips snap three, four, five times and he's coming. He allows himself to watch this, watches as Eames' wet mouth drops open, a perfect 'Oh;' watches the way the muscles of his arms strain as he tries to keep his full weight off of Arthur, and the way his hips stutter in the most beautiful way. And he can't be sure, but he thinks he can feel it, feel Eames coming inside of him, _really_ coming inside of him, all of his essence flooding up into Arthurs insides and his cock gives a feeble, almost painful twitch at the thought.

He won't pay any attention to that thought either.

So many things he isn't thinking about, tonight.

He runs his hands lazily all over Eames' chest as the other man recovers. His eyes are still closed, and he's still breathing heavily, but his hips have stopped pumping. Arthur can't stop touching, runs his fingers all over, tweaking Eames' nipples, running down his chest, scratching softly through the coarse hair on his stomach.

He lifts his hips up, squeezing around Eames' dick still inside of him, easy and slutty, and loves the way Eames hisses and follows him back down, until they're chest to chest and kissing deeply again, tongues tangling.

Finally he slips out, and when Eames slides down to rest his head on Arthur's stomach, Arthur doesn't protest. Just threads his fingers through the sweaty strands and closes his eyes when he feels a soft, lingering kiss pressed to his hip.

Softly, breath skating across his belly button. "Alrigh'?"

He breathes out, not thinking about anything. "Alright."


End file.
